REBEL  RHYMES 


AND 


OTHER  POEMS 


BY 


ELIZABETH    J.    HEREFORD 


•   NEW    YORK    AND   LONDON 

G.    P.    PUTNAM'S    SONS 


1888 


COPYRIGHT   BY 

ELIZABETH  J.  HEREFORD 


Press  of 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 
New  York 


DEDICATED 

TO 
THE  ARMY  OF  NORTHERN  VIRGINIA. 

"  Nor  can  there  fail  to  arise  the  image  of  that  other  Army 
that  was  the  adversary  of  the  '  Army  of  the  Potomac, ' — and 
which,  who  can  ever  forget  that  once  looked  upon  it  ? — that 
array  of  '  tattered  uniforms,  and  bright  muskets  ' — that  body 
of  incomparable  infantry,  the  '  Army  of  Northern  Virginia', 
which  for  four  years  carried  the  Revolt  on  its  bayonets,  op 
posing  a  constant  front  to  the  mighty  concentration  of  power 
brought  against  it ;  which,  receiving  terrible  blows,  did  not 
fail  to  give  the  like  ;  and  which,  vital  in  all  its  parts,  died 
only  with  its  annihilation,"  —  Swinton's  "Army  of  the 
Potomac." 


CONTENTS 


THE  LAND  OF  DIXIE      .        .        .        .       ...       .        .      j 

THE  OLD  PLANTATION  ...        .        .    "  .        .4 

A  TEXAS  IDYL        .        .        ....        .        .6 

THE  REBEL'S  SWORD     .        .       .        „        .        .        .9 
SELIM     .        .       .        .        .       .       •       .       .        .11 

CORRESPONDENCE  .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .15 

OUR  SOLDIER         ,      .•        •  "•--•       •        •        •        •     i? 

FATHER  RYAN iq 

LOUISIANA 21 

THE  SCOURGE 24 

OUR  CHIEFTAIN     .        .       .'..'.        .        .27 
CARRIER'S  NEW  YEAR'S  ADDRESS  .        ...        .30 

A  SERENADE  .        .        . 32 

THE  LAST  VICTORY 34 

TWILIGHT      .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .    40 

RUTH  ALLEN          .        .        .        .        i        .        .        .42 

YOUTH  AND  AGE    .        .        .  ...        .44 

THE  DEATH  OF  STONEWALL  JACKSON    .        .        .        .46 

THE  IDEAL  LAND  .        .        . 48 

THE  UNVEILING  OF  THE  STATUE  OF  GENERAL  A.  S. 
JOHNSON         .        ,        ,        .        .        .  .50 

THE  VOUDOO          .        .        ,        ....        .        .53 

DEAD  ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR    .....     56 

v 


vi  CONTENTS. 

THE  BORDER-LAND 60 

THE  OLD  HOMESTEAD 63 

IN  MEMORY  OF  MRS.  GEN.  CABELL        .        .        .        .67 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  SUN 70 

To  THE  BEREAVED 72 

HUMILITY 74 

THE  MISSISSIPPI 76 


THE  LAND  OF  DIXIE. 


Where  centuries  with  a  cearfepi  tide 
Sweep  o'er  the  n  itioar  that  hare  died, 

The  nations  that  their  course  have  ran, 
There  lies  a  mighty  f alien  one. 
In  all  hex  vestal  robes  pure  while, 
She  perished  in  a  single  night, — 
With  prayers  and  tears  and 
Her  lovers  saw  her  fall  and  die 
Upon  the  breast  of  Dixie. 


They  said,  Alas! 

Our  lady  faira 
While  e'en  die  foe  with  bated  bread 
Looked  down  upon  her  glorious  dea 
Alas !  Alas !  dien  let  her  rest, 
Widi  laurel  oa  her  brow  and  breast, 
~L  - :  irined  let  all  her  glories  lie 
Beneath  the  ever  radiant  sky 
Thatspans  the  land  of  Dixie. 


THE    LAND    OF    DIXIE. 


,  as  the  red,  red  wine 
Flows'  from  the  clusters  of  the  vine, 
In  waves  about  her  peerless  feet, 
Pressed  out  of  lives  that  held  it  sweet 
To  perish,  that  't  was  half  divine 
To  sleep  in  death  'neath  freedom's  shrine  ; 
They  slumber  on  her  tender  breast, 
The  truest,  fondest,  bravest,  best,  — 
The  gallant  sons  of  Dixie. 

Our  dead,  how  dear,  with  eyes  tear-wet, 
The  living  think  upon  them  yet,  — 
How  sacred  the  memorial  fires, 
That  love  in  human  hearts  inspires  ; 
They  '11  burn  with  ever  radiant  ray, 
As  long  as  darkness  follows  day. 
And  immortelles  their  bloom  shall  shed, 
O'er  marble  couch,  or  grass-grown  bed, 
That  holds  the  dead  of  Dixie. 

O  wind  !  that  mingles  with  the  roar, 
Of  waters  by  the  wave-kissed  shore, 
Or,  like  a  blessing,  breathes  around 
Our  homes  with  sweet  caressing  sound, 
Thou  bringest  now  upon  thy  breast 


THE    LAND    OF    DIXIE. 

No  note  of  war,  no  dirge  of  death, 
But  seemest  to  whisper  o'er  and  o'er, 
Come  quickly,  O  glad  days  of  yore, 
To  all  the  land  of  Dixie  ! 

The  bitter  dregs  are  drained  at  last, 
The  darkness  dieth  down  the  past. 
Thy  trials  all  with  triumphs  crowned, 
Thy  noble  sons  by  toil  embrowned, 
Have  made  of  every  battle-plain, 
A  golden  field  of  waving  grain  ; 
Thy  portals  now  are  decked  with  flowers 
And  peace,  and  plenty  in  thy  bowers, 
O  peerless  land  of  Dixie  ! 


THE  OLD  PLANTATION. 


Runs  a  dark  and  restless  river, 
Seaward  by  a  low  batture, 
On  its  breast  the  moonbeams  quiver, 
As  in  days  of  long  ago. 

There  the  old  plantation  lies 
All  dismantled  and  forlorn, 
And  the  air  is  full  of  sighs 
For  the  days  of  long  ago. 

O,  the  waving  wealth  of  canes, 
Bending  with  their  emerald  hues, 
Footsteps  down  the  long  green  lanes, 
In  the  days  of  long  ago. 

Sounds  of  engines,  far  and  near, 
Grinding  out  the  juices  sweet, 
Called  like  voices,  loud  and  clear, 
In  the  days  of  long  ago. 
4 


THE    OLD    PLANTATION. 

Happy  slaves  their  burdens  bore, 
Toiling,  yet  with  cheerful  faces, 
Singing  weird  songs  o'er  and  o'er, 
In  the  days  of  long  ago. 

In  the  homestead,  not  a  care  ; 
Sounds  of  love,  and  sounds  of  laughter 
Orange  blossoms,  budding  there, 
In  the  days  of  long  ago. 

In  the  hush  of  all  this  gladness 
Came  the  sound  of  martial  drums, 
And  the  land  was  full  of  sadness, 
In  the  days  of  long  ago. 

Bridal  blossoms  all  are  dead, 
Lanes  all  grass-grown,  fields  all  yellow, 
And  the  laughter,  too,  has  fled, 
With  the  days  of  long  ago. 

Still  the  rushing,  restless  river 
Runs  along  the  low  batture, 
All  unchanged,  it  murmurs  ever, 
As  in  days  of  long  ago. 


A   TEXAS   IDYL. 

From  the  far-famed  Persian  looms, 
From  the  distant  eastern  lands, 
Come  the  wondrous  fabrics  woven 
By  the  toil  of  skilful  hands  ; 
But  upon  the  prairies  brown, 
Now  is  spread  a  robe  more  rare, 
Wealth  of  blossoms,  wealth  of  bloom, 
Wealth  of  fragrance  everywhere. 

Brush  of  painter,  poet's  pen, 
Strive  in  vain,  they  cannot  reach 
Nature's  heights,  their  efforts  grand, 
Lifeless  lie  along  the  beach. 
Like  a  blessing  sweet  as  prayer, 
On  the  prairie  vast  and  wide, 
Like  a  tender  touch  of  heaven, 
Falls  the  spell  of  eventide. 

Rests  upon  the  rough-hewn  home, 
Centred  in  a  picture  grand, 
6 


A    TEXAS   IDYL. 

At  the  threshold,  by  the  door, 
Clustering  now  the  children  stand, 
In  the  cooling  evening  hours. 
Father  smokes  his  pipe,  at  rest, 
Mother,  now  the  work  is  done, 
Rocks  the  baby  on  her  breast. 

What  tho'  mighty  monarchs  die, 
What  tho'  kingdoms  great  shall  cease, 
Here  they  know  not  crowns  or  care, 
All  is  sweet  content  and  peace. 
Far  away  great  cities  rise 
Mid  the  busy  world  of  strife, 
But  no  murmur  of  the  tide 
Mingles  with  their  quiet  life. 

From  the  distance  comes  the  song 
Of  the  cowboy,  wild  and  quaint, 
Notes  in  numbers  loud  and  strong  ; 
Now  they  quiver,  now  they  faint, 
Dying  in  a  cadence  sad, 
Where  the  restless  tramping  feet 
Of  the  mighty,  moving  herd 
Crush  the  flowers  frail  and  sweet. 


A    TEXAS   IDYL. 

O'er  the  nectar-ladened  blooms, 
Bearing  burdens  to  and  fro, 
Float  the  busy  little  bees, 
Softly  humming  as  they  go  ; 
Parting  gleams  of  glory  lie 
On  the  hills  far  off  and  dim  ; 
The  sunset  clouds  the  picture  frames, 
And  sets  it  in  a  golden  rim. 

O  dream  of  beauty,  fade  not  yet ; 
One  moment  more, — alas  !  it  flies  ; 
The  shadows  come,  like  giants  grim, 
And  bear  it  from  my  pleading  eyes. 
The  darkness,  in  a  mighty  wave, 
Flows  down  and  hides  the  picture  bright  ; 
In  vain,  my  heart  cries  out,  "  Return  !  " 
It  glides  away  into  the  night. 


THE   REBEL'S   SWORD. 

'T  is  the  blade  of  a  rebel 
Who  sleeps  'neath  the  sod, 

The  sword  of  a  soldier 
Now  gone  to  his  God. 

Take  it  down  gently, 

Touch  it  with  care, 
Blade  of  Toledo  ! 

No  gems  rich  and  rare 

Can  buy  thee  away, 

From  thy  place  on  the  wall ; 
For  when  the  day  darkens, 

And  long  shadows  fall, 

I  gaze  on  thee  sadly, 
And  think  of  the  day 

When  from  the  red  field 
They  bore  him  away, 
9 


10  THE    REBEL  S   SWORD. 

And  laid  him  so  tenderly 
'Neath  the  green  tree — 

Our  valiant  young  soldier, 
Who  died  to  be  free. 

Then  they  took  the  sword  sadly 
From  out  his  cold  clasp  ; 

Sadly,  and  solemnly, 

From  out  his  death  grasp. 

And  while  wiping  away 
Each  dark  bloody  stain, 

We  wept  that  he  never 
Could  wield  it  again. 

Then  take  it  down  silently, 
The  sword  of  my  love  ; 

Breathe  gently  a  prayer 
For  the  soul  gone  above. 

For  the  soul  of  the  rebel 
Who  lies  'neath  the  sod  ; 

The  soul  of  the  soldier 
Now  gone  to  his  God. 


SELIM. 

A    STORY    OF    FRONTIER    LIFE. 


Through  a  frontier  forest  brown. 
Rides  a  slender  maiden  down 
To  the  stream  that  like  a  thread 
Of  silver  o'er  its  rocky  bed 
Unwinds  itself  'mid  briar  and  brake. 
Down  to  the  bosom  of  the  lake, 
Rides  amid  the  sunset's  gold, 
That  about  her  seems  to  fold  ; 
And  her  cheeks,  are  all  aglow, 
Sounds  her  singing  soft  and  low, — 
Like  sweet-toned  Eolian  notes 
Through  the  evening  air  it  floats, 
Though  't  is  but  a  time-worn  hymn 
Sounding  down  the  vistas  dim. 

'Mid  the  whisperings  of  the  breeze 
Through  the  low-branched  waving  trees, 
ii 


12  SELIM. 

Comes  a  wild,  blood-curdling  cry. 
Hark,  how  the  echoes  wake  and  die, 
They  come  e'en  now,  the  savage  foes, 
Like  the  swift  arrows  from  their  bows. 
Riding  down  the  tangled  way 
Of  the  forest,  wild  dismay 
Holds  the  maiden  breathless  there, 
Breathless  with  her  heart's  despair  ; 
The  fearful  cries  ring  out  again, 
And  then  she  gives  her  horse  the  rein. 
So  fast  they  fly,  the  shadows  seem 
Like  dancing  demons  by  the  stream. 

O  noble  steed,  of  noble  sire, 
Not  faster  does  the  leaping  fire 
Sweep  o'er  the  bosom  of  the  plain, 
Or  breath  of  tempest  o'er  the  main. 
'T  is  well  thou  runneth  like  the  wind, 
For  shadowy  death  runs  fast  behind. 
There  lies  the  cabin  home,  at  last, — 
The  foeman,  too,  are  coming  fast, 
Adown  the  shorter  way  they  ride, 
Through  briar,  and  brake,  by  mountain  side, 
Speed  on,  or  soon  the  poisoned  dart 
Will  pierce  thy  fiercely-beating  heart  ; 


SELIM.  13 

For  death,  and  torture,  and  untold  woes, 
Like  demons  ride  with  those  bended  bows. 

They  near  the  fence,  that  rail  on  rail 
Lies  serpent-like  across  the  trail, 
One  moment,  then  he  spurns  the  ground, 
And  clears  it  with  one  gallant  bound  ! 
Like  lightning  through  the  open  door, 
He  rushes  in — a  moment  more 
The  bar  descends,  without  arise 
The  baffled  rage  of  savage  cries. 
Down  from  her  seat  the  maiden  glides, 
And  stands  by  Selim's  reeking  sides  ; 
She  draws  his  head  close  to  her  breast, 
Her  prayerful  lips  upon  it  pressed, 
And  hears  afar  the  savage  wail, 
As  darkness  falls  upon  the  vale. 

Years  of  sorrow  and  joy  have  fled, 
The  years  that  go  with  noiseless  tread, 
The  maiden  is  a  matron  grown, 
The  forests  are  fields,  with  seeds  o'ersown  ; 
No  more  is  heard  the  wild  bees'  hum, 
No  more  the  swallows  go  and  come 
About  the  rough-hewn  cabin  walls. 


14  SELIM. 

But  morning  breaks,  and  twilight  falls 
Upon  a  home,  where  pattering  feet 
Keep  rythmic  time  to  laughter  sweet. 
Oft  by  the  doorway,  in  the  sun, 
Old  Selim  stands,  his  work  is  done  ; 
There  you  may  see  him,  day  by  day, 
Lazily  dreaming  the  hours  away. 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


This  earth  is  but  the  mirror 

Of  the  glorious  world  above, 
The  land  of  the  hereafter, 

The  land  of  life,  and  love. 
The  sun  that  gilds  the  day 

With  its  life-awakening  light, 
The  gentle  moon  that  crowns  the  sky, 

And  rules  the  realms  of  night  ; 
Fixed  stars  that  drink  the  sunlight, 

And  the  wandering  stars  that  burn 
High  in  the  arch  of  heaven, 

Each  red  comet  in  its  turn  ; 
The  fleecy  clouds  that  skim  the  sky, 

Or  dark,  storm-ladened  come  ; 
The  zephyr  with  its  gentle  breath, 

The  whirlwind's  thrilling  tone  ; 
The  ocean  in  its  fury, 

And  the  streamlet,  breathing  mirth  ; 
15 


l6  CORRESPONDENCE. 

Trees  with  their  moving  banners  green, 

Each  humble  flower  of  earth  ; — 
All  speak  in  heavenly  language 

Some  soul-felt  mystery 
Of  the  home  that  is  prepared  us, 

In  the  great  eternity. 
If  man  will  take  these  lessons 

To  his  weary  world-worn  heart, 
They  '11  lead  him  from  the  thorny  paths 

To  seek  that  better  part 
Which  leadeth  through  the  darkness, 

Up  to  a  world  of  light, 
Leaving  earthly  cares  and  sorrows 

Buried  in  this  world  of  night. 


OUR   SOLDIER. 

Down  the  blossom-bordered  lanes, 
Through  the  rows  of  emerald  canes, 

Our  soldier  went  one  day  ; 
All  his  heart  with  rapture  glowing, 
Dreams  of  glory  round  him  flowing, 

Thus  he  rode  away. 

He  sleeps  beside  a  tranquil  lake, 

No  sounds  of  strife  his  slumbers  break, 

No  tears  for  him  are  shed  ; 
But  gentle  winds  above  him  toss 
The  tangled  tendrils  of  the  moss, 

Gray  banners  o'er  his  head. 

While  murmurous  music  seems  to  flow 
From  where  the  rustling  rushes  grow, 

And  lotus  flowers  nod 

ir  white  heads  on  the  summer  air, 
Sweet  silent  sentinels  so  fair, 

About  the  sacred  sod. 
17 


l8  OUR   SOLDIER. 

He  sleeps,  and  never  through  the  canes, 
Through  the  blossom-bordered  lanes, 

Will  he  come  again  ; 
Still  is  the  heart  within  his  breast — 
O  gallant  soldier,  take  thy  rest, 

Thy  honor  bears  no  stain. 


FATHER    RYAN. 

IN    MEMORIAM. 


The  New  South,  with  her  haughty  tread, 

And  fair,  uplifted  face, 
Walks  o'er  the  ashes  of  the  dead, 

Leading  the  newborn  race. 

They  hear  no  sounds  of  anguish  rise 
Where  Dixie's  loving  daughters 

Once  sang  their  sorrows  'neath  the  skies, 
By  dark  Babylonian  waters. 

How  dim  and  indistinct  they  seem, 
The  war  ways  'neath  the  clouds, 

The  shifting  shadows  of  a  dream, 
Our  heroes  in  their  shrouds. 

O  proud  young  race  !  the  Old  South  cries, 
Look  backward,  where  he  sleeps, — 

Her  poet-priest,  in  death  he  lies  ; 
Behold  her,  how  she  weeps  ! 
19 


20  FATHER    RYAN. 

What  hand  the  silent  lyre  shall  wake, 
To  ring  her  martial  measures  ? 

Who  from  the  buried  past  now  take 
The  lost  Pompeian  treasures  ? 

What  minstrel  sing  her  lofty  lays, 
And  tell  the  wondrous  story  ? 

Who  now  the  conquered  banner  raise 
Unto  the  heights  of  glory  ? 

Rest,  sunlit  shafts,  in  holy  light, 

About  the  sacred  tomb  ; 
O  softening  shadows  of  the  night, 

Fall  lightly  in  the  gloom  ! 

For  he  who  lies  beneath  the  sod, 
Loved,  with  a  proud  devotion, 

His  country  well, — next  to  his  God. 
His  be  the  patriot's  portion. 

Farewell,  sweet  singer,  may  thy  bold 
Strains  rise  with  the  immortals, 

Thy  footsteps  tread  the  paths  of  gold 
That  lead  from  heavenly  portals. 

And  all  the  yesterdays  so  sad, 
The  yesterdays  of  sorrow, 

Be  lost  forever  in  the  glad 
Eternities  of  morrow  ! 


LOUISIANA. 

WRITTEN    ON    HER    FREEDOM   FROM  RADICAL  RULE. 


From  where  the  broad  Pacific 
Beats  at  the  golden  gates, 
To  where  the  wild  Atlantic  sweeps, 
Storm-crowned,  around  the  States, 
There  is  no  land  divinely  fair 
Or  beauteous  as  thou  art  ; 
Enshrined  like  some  rare  jewel, 
In  every  Southern  heart. 

Thou  wert  like  some  dead  beauty, 

With  sweet  flowers  on  thy  breast, 

And  the  crescent  crown  upon  thy  brow 

Was  dim  with  thy  unrest. 

There  was  a  sound  of  wailing, 

And  her  sister  States  all  said  : 

The  Queen,  enchained  and  desolate, 

Down-trodden,  she  is  dead. 

21 


22  LOUISIANA. 

But  the  warm,  resistless  gulf-waves 

Flowed  up  with  measured  beat, 

And  brought  the  quick  life-pulses 

Unto  her  pulseless  feet ; 

While  the  mocking-birds  kept  calling 

From  out  her  orange  groves  : 

How  could  she  die,  and  break  the  hearts 

Of  all  her  ardent  loves  ? 

See,  see  !  she  moves  her  chained  hands, 

A  hush  is  on  the  sea — 

Her  fetters  fall  from  out  the  land — 

Goes  up  a  cry,  "  She  's  free  !  " 

How  freshly  bloom  her  gardens  now, 

On  highland  and  on  plain  ; 

Exultant  her  great  river  rolls 

Amid  her  fields  of  cane. 

A  shout  goes  up  from  every  hearth, 
Where  sorrow  sat  before, 
And  echoes  back  from  strand  to  strand  : 
"  Free  !  free  for  evermore  !" 
Her  children  from  the  "  Lone  Star  State 
Cry  to  her  sons  :  "  Well  done  ! 
How  nobly  you  have  worn  your  chains, 
How  bravely  you  have  won  !" 


LOUISIANA.  23 

Shine,  Crescent,  shine  to  all  the  earth  ! 

Across  the  waiting  sea, 

Come  ships,  and  bear  her  treasures  forth, 

Bring  her  prosperity. 

Her  people  now  with  willing  hands 

Will  welcome  honest  toil ; 

And  poverty  and  want  shall  dwell 

No  more  upon  her  soil. 


THE  SCOURGE. 

Where,  barbed  with  tropic  fires, 
Are  the  arrows  of  the  day, 
And  the  stars,  like  gleaming  lances, 
Shine  adown  the  sky's  highway, — 
Where  the  breezes,  'mid  the  blossoms 
Of  the  orange  and  the  lime, 
Are  breathing,  odor  ladened, 
In  a  sultry,  sunlit  clime, — 

Where  the  lagoons  through  the  marshes, 

Like  serpents  sinuous  go, 

'Neath  trees,  whose  old  gray  branches 

Wave  sombre  signs  of  woe, 

And  the  mists  creep  up  at  morning, 

Then  from  the  broad  day's  frown 

Flee  back,  to  come  at  twilight, 

Ghostlike,  gliding  swiftly  down, — 

There  Death  rises  from  the  waters, 
And  with  feet  upon  the  strand, 
24 


THE    SCOURGE.  25 

Turns  towards  a  sunlit  city, 
With  cold  eyes  and  beckoning  hand. 
Then  the  old  prophetic  warning 
Is  heard  once  more  :  "  Behold, 
One  of  the  two  together 
Shall  be  taken  from  the  fold." 


The  idol  of  the  household 
Drops  its  playthings  at  the  door, 
And  turns  its  trembling  footsteps 
To  the  unseen,  silent  shore. 
The  bride  in  her  fair  beauty, 
With  the  lovelight  in  her  eyes, 
Looks  back  to  earth  with  longing 
From  the  threshold  of  the  skies. 


The  old,  the  young,  the  happy, 
The  worn  with  worldly  cares, 
The  sowers  of  the  golden  wheat, 
The  sowers  of  the  tares, — 
Rise  up  and  go  forth  quickly 
Unto  that  beckoning  hand — 
Unto  the  feet  of  solemn  death, 
Unto  the  spirit  land. 


26  THE    SCOURGE. 

And  homes  are  full  of  mourning ; 
Fond  eyes  o'erflow  with  tears, 
Eyes  that  will  e'er  be  turning 
To  the  realms  of  boundless  years. 
But  voices  from  the  darkness 
Are  calling  :  "  Loved  ones,  come, 
Through  the  valley  of  transition, 
We  will  lead  you  gently  home." 

Now  upon  the  earth-strewn  coffins 
Of  the  lowly  and  the  lost, — 
By  the  cold  wild  winds  of  autumn 
The  withered  leaves  are  tossed. 
But  gentle  spring  returning 
Will  clothe  them  all  with  green, 
Teaching  nature's  living  lessons 
Of  the  things  that  are  unseen. 


OUR  CHIEFTAIN. 


They  say  thou  art  forgotten, 
Chief  of  the  great  Southland  ; 

That  thy  people's  vows  are  naught 
But  ropes  of  frail  sea  sand. 

Or,  like  the  web  the  spider  weaves 

In  one  short  summer  day, 
Blown  here  and  there  by  passing  winds, 

And  swept  by  storms  away. 

Believe  it  not, — our  hearts  are  true  ; 

Thy  name  can  never  die 
While  yet  one  flower  drinks  the  dew 

Beneath  the  Southern  sky. 

Forget  thee,  never  !  while  one  ray 

Of  sunlight  from  the  blue, 
Falls  earthward  on  the  graves  where  lie 

Our  soldiers,  brave  and  true. 
27 


28  OUR   CHIEFTAIN. 

Ah  !  in  the  dim  hours  of  the  day, 
The  silence  of  the  night, 

We  seem  to  see  the  troops  in  gray 
Sweep  down  from  off  the  heights. 

And  shadowy  forms  by  riverside, 
And  on  fierce  battle  plain  ; 

Once  more  our  gallant  soldiers  ride, 
Our  vessels  speed  the  main. 

Our  bugle  notes  sound  once  again 
Adown  the  valleys  wide  ; 

The  beat  of  drum,  the  clash  of  steel 
We  hear  on  every  side. 

Alas  !  the  conquered  banner 
Waves  but  in  fitful  dreams  ; 

Our  armies  grand  are  phantoms, 
That  ford  the  flowing  streams. 

Still,  we  with  souls  undaunted 
Will  sing  our  martial  lays, 

And  tell  to  coming  ages 
The  glory  of  those  days. 

And  all  about  the  sepulchres, 
The  graves  of  our  defeat, 


OUR   CHIEFTAIN.  29 

Will  Poesy  the  pathways  tread, 
And  gather  garlands  sweet. 

Garlands  that  ne'er  shall  wither, 

Of  names  that  cannot  die 
While  yet  one  flower  drinks  the  dew 

Beneath  the  Southern  sky. 

Then,  Chieftain  of  the  Southland, 

Proud  heart,  be  of  good  cheer, 
Thy  people's  prayers  for  thee  arise, 

Thy  life  they  hold  most  dear. 

We  '11  ne'er  forget  thee  while  one  spot 
Remains  where  blood  was  shed, 

One  memory  in  our  lives  is  left, 
Of  one  dear  rebel  dead. 


CARRIER'S  NEW  YEAR'S  ADDRESS. 
FOR  THE  "DALLAS  HERALD." 


Hushed  are  the  merry  Christmas  bells, 
The  "  Old  Year,"  too,  has  fled 

Adown  the  ways  of  bygone  days, 
Where  centuries  lie  dead. 

The  "  New  Year,"  with  her  youthful  airs, 
Comes  forth  to  take  her  place  ; 

Rich  wreaths  of  plenty  in  her  hands, 
And  smiles  upon  her  face. 

May  she  her  streams  of  wealth  outpour 

Upon  her  fields  and  lands  ; 
Her  sunlit  smiles  upon  you  fall, 

And  bounty  from  her  hands. 

Unto  our  people  may  she  give 

Rare  jewels  from  her  breast, 
And  shelter  in  her  happy  arms 

The  poor  and  the  oppressed. 
30 


CARRIER'S  NEW  YEAR'S  ADDRESS.  31 

Kind  friends,  the  favors  freely  given 

To  us  throughout  the  past, 
Once  more  bestow,  they  will  return, 

Like  bread  on  waters  cast. 

We  labor  hard  that  you  may  learn, 

Broadcast  we  drop  the  leaves  ; 
Sowing  the  while  that  you  may  reap, 

And  garner  golden  sheaves. 

The  Herald  still  shall  seek  to  win 

To  our  young  city  here, 
A  goodly  name,  a  wealth  of  fame, 

To  make  a  prosperous  year. 

For  high  and  low,  for  rich  and  poor  ; 

For  all,  both  far  and  near, 
May  Time  the  coming  hours  entwine 

Into  a  "  Happy  Year." 


A  SERENADE. 

Come  through  the  aisles  of  moss-crowned  oaks, 
Down  to  the  banks  of  the  inland  sea, 

Where  the  crystal  waves  in  the  glimmering  light, 
Meet  the  white  shores  caressingly. 

Where  the  sand-silvered  shells  lie  row  on  row, 

And  the  winds  in  the  willows,  like  sighs,  soundeth 
low  ; 

And  the  lotus-flowers  lift  up  their  snowy-crowned 
heads, 

Nodding  so  lazily  o'er  their  green  beds. 

Come  when  the  cayman  joins  in  the  hum 

Of  the  insect-world,  with  his  deep  bass  notes, 
And  the  wild  water-fowl,  in  the  darkening  day, 

On  the  crest  of  the  gentle  breaker  floats. 
The  glowworm  will  light  a  path  for  thy  feet, 
And  the  mocking-bird  greet  thee  lovingly  sweet ; 
While  the  breezes  will  whisper  a  tale  to  thee 
Of  one  to  be  whispered,  down  by  the  sea. 
32 


A   SERENADE.  33 

Come,  rest  on  the  green-crested  Indian  mound, 
And  I  '11  tell  you  how  once,  in  the  days  of  yore, 

A  dusky  maiden,  with  nimble  hand, 
'Broidered  a  belt  with  wampum  o'er, 

For  her  warrior  chief,  as  she  watched  the  while 

For  his  light  canoe,  from  the  low,  cypress  isle  ; 

Coming  with  offerings  for  her  from  afar  ; 

Coming  in  triumph  with  trophies  of  war. 

Then  my  voice  will  take  a  tenderer  tone, 

As  I  tell  thee  a  tale  of  a  later  day  ; 
And  if  the  warm  blush  on  thy  cheek  should  burn, 

I  '11  kiss  it  fondly,  fair  one,  away  ; 
And  as  the  bright  stars  steal  out  in  the  skies, 
Fathom  my  fate  in  thy  dark  beaming  eyes. 
Then  haste  to  the  banks  of  the  inland  sea, 
Where  thy  true  love  is  sighing  and  watching  for 
thee. 


THE  LAST  VICTORY. 


Now  waking  with  the  faintest  hum, 
Is  heard  the  roll  of  distant  drum  ; 
While  answering  back  from  every  lea, 
Sounds  quick,  the  rebel  reveille. 

From  lowly  couches  where  they  lie, 
Beneath  the  arches  of  the  sky, 
The  slumbering  armies  wake  to  life, 
And  gird  them  for  the  coming  strife. 

Now  here,  now  there,  the  quivering  lights, 
Shine  out  like  stars  upon  the  heights  ; 
While  in  the  distant  vales  below, 
They  flit  like  fireflies  to  and  fro. 

See  where  the  Southrons  proudly  go, 
In  glittering  columns,  row  on  row, 
March  in  unbroken,  grand  array, 
As  if  't  were  some  great  gala  day. 
34 


THE    LAST    VICTORY.  35 

But  from  the  strains  of  fife  and  drum, 
And  from  the  struggle  soon  to  come ; 
From  scenes  of  blood  and  war  to-day, 
Their  thoughts  are  winging  far  away 

To  homes  where  orange  blossoms  blow, 
Where  dark  and  sluggish  bayous  flow  ; 
Where,  bounded  by  sweet  summer  skies, 
All  nature  dreams  and  slumbrous  lies. 

To  homes  by  lakes,  upon  whose  breast 
The  water-fowl  floats  at  rest  ; 
And  southern  lotus-flowers  fair, 
Their  white  heads  bow  as  if  in  prayer. 

To  homes  amid  the  sighing  pines, 
That  heavenward  tower  in  rigid  lines  ; 
By  winding  streams,  on  prairies  wide  ; 
In  lowly  vales,  on  mountain  side. 

Dear  ones  are  there  who  sadly  wait, 
The  mandates  of  relentless  fate  ; 
No  mirth  is  there,  no  sound  of  song, 
Where  sadly  drag  the  hours  along. 


36  THE   LAST    VICTORY. 

But  prayers  for  those  who,  far  away, 
Perchance  go  down  to  death  to-day  ; 
Go  down  with  firm,  unfaltering  tread. 
The  paths  where  patriots  oft  have  bled. 

They  're  marching  down  the  battle  plain, 
To  Dixie's  mellow,  martial  strain  ; 
While,  like  an  echo  from  afar, 
Come  back  the  foemen's  notes  of  war. 


Behold  their  haughty  banner,  too, 
Its  stars  engemmed  amid  the  blue  ; 
Bidding  defiance  to  the  world, 
In  every  fluttering  fold  unfurled. 

See,  too,  the  blood-red  southern  cross, 
Amid  the  flash  of  bayonets  toss  ; 
The  very  chargers  seem  to  know 
That  carnage  soon  shall  reign  below. 

Hark  !  't  is  the  rebel  yell  we  hear ; 
It  bears  no  note,  no  breath  of  fear  ; 
'T  is  well,  they  meet  no  common  foe, 
But  veterans,  who  '11  give  blow  for  blow. 


THE    LAST    VICTORY.  37 

Who  '11  stand  like  rocks  upon  the  shore 
Where  tempests  have  vainly  beat  before  ? 
The  flower  of  a  mighty  land, 

Undaunted,  fearless,  firm  of  hand. 

* 

Sons  of  the  sunny  land,  be  bold  ; 
A  nation's  prayers  your  hand  uphold  ; 
With  every  breeze  that  round  you  blows, 
A  benediction  to  you  flows. 

With  eager  steps  they  follow  where 
Their  tattered  banners  kiss  the  air ; 
Like  avalanche,  they  sweep  adown, 
And  charge  the  heights  where  batteries  frown. 

Now  mingle  in  the  dreadful  fray, 
The  armies  of  the  blue  and  gray  ; 
How  eyes  grow  dim,  how  senses  reel, 
With  flash  of  arms  and  clash  of  steel. 


Hark  !  how  the  bugle's  stirring  strain 
Calls  to  them  o'er  the  bloody  plain  ; 
The  sombre  clouds  hang  dark  and  low  ; 
Who  now  can  tell  a  friend  from  foe  ? 


38  THE   LAST    VICTORY. 

What  deeds  of  prowess,  hand  to  hand  ; 
What  precious  blood  dyes  all  the  land  ; 
And  last  farewells,  breathed  out  upon 
Each  field  of  triumph, — dearly  won. 

Beside  the  soldier  in  his  prime, 
Lies  one  just  o'er  the  glad  springtime  ; 
The  furrowed  cheek,  the  hoary  hair 
Of  age,  in  death  are  mingled  there. 

The  sons  of  toil,  with  hard-worn  hands, 
The  lord  of  slaves  and  princely  lands, 
The  blood  of  churl  and  cavalier, 
Now  mingle  in  one  common  bier. 

But  evening  shadows  creep  around 
The  pathways  of  the  battle  ground  ; 
And  peace  is  brooding  once  more  where 
Harsh  battle  thunders  rent  the  air. 

The  southern  cross  floats  once  again 
In  victory  o'er  the  unnumbered  slain  ; 
In  victory,  but  it  is  the  last ; 
The  coming  tempest  lowers  fast. 


THE   LAST    VICTORY.  39 

O  oft-tried  troops,  the  python  coils 
Of  fate  will  crush  you  in  its  toils  ! 
There  is  no  cloud  to  go  before  ; 
No  rod  to  span  the  waters  o'er. 

What  tongue  can  tell  !     Ah  !  who  can  say 
The  bitter  anguish  of  that  day, 
When  humbled  was  a  haughty  race, 
And  a  proud  nation  veiled  her  face  ? 

But  let  the  future,  like  a  pall, 
Before  those  hours  of  anguish  fall  ; 
Shut  out  from  all  the  wide  world's  gaze 
The  deep  despair  of  those  dark  days. 

Soon  will  the  armies  clad  in  gray 
Pass  like  the  mists  at  dawn  of  day, 
And  naught  be  left  but  what  belongs 
To  history,  and  to  poet's  songs. 


TWILIGHT. 

FIRST. 

'T  is  a  tender,  touching  time, — 
Twilight  in  a  southern  clime  : 
Then  the  music  softly  wakes 
From  the  tangle  of  the  brakes. 
To  and  fro  the  evening  breeze 
Sways  the  sombre  moss-hung  trees, 
By  the  inland  lakes  that  lie, 
Softly  silvered,  'neath  the  sky. 
On  the  crystal  waves  are  seen, 
Floating  up,  long  arms  of  green, 
To  the  night  dews  holding  up, 
Each  a  pure-white  chalice  cup. 
Lilies  blooming  everywhere 
Like  the  wondrous  lotus  fair. 
By  the  low  isles,  all  unseen, 
Swims  the  cayman  in  between  ; 
Soon  his  bellowings,  loud  and  harsh, 
Wake  the  night  birds  from  the  marsh  ; 
Circling  here  and  there  they  fly, 
Some  with  hoarse,  discordant  cry  ; 
40 


TWILIGHT.  41 

Some  with  twitterings,  soft  and  low, 
Where  the  sluggish  bayous  flow. 
The  forests,  skies,  the  very  ground, 
Seem  filled  with  one  harmonious  sound, 
'T  is  nature's  vesper  o'er  the  land, 
Sent  heavenward  by  an  unseen  hand. 


SECOND. 

Ah  !  't  is  a  tender,  touching  time, — 

Twilight  in  a  southern  clime  : 

Then  the  night  with  solemn  tread, 

Advancing,  tells  us  :  "  Day  is  dead." 

A  time  to  gather  to  the  fold 

Of  retrospection,  thoughts  of  gold  ; 

Of  resolutions  to  attain 

Those  promised  robes  without  a  stain. 

A  time  when  truths  eternal  seem 

The  ladder  of  the  seer's  dream, 

By  which  our  world-worn  spirits  rise 

Unto  the  heights  of  angel  skies. 

Ah  !  when  our  heavenly  day  is  done, 

May  heavenly  twilight  fall  upon 

Us  gently,  as  this  twilight  time, 

All  glorious  in  a  southern  clime. 


RUTH  ALLEN. 

Pretty  Ruth  Allen  from  morn  to  eve, 

As  fast  as  her  slender  fingers  could  weave, 

Broidered  a  banner  of  silken  bars, 

And  a  blue  field  glittering  with  silver  stars. 

In  the  twilight's  beauty,  at  early  dawn, 

Pretty  Ruth  Allen  wove  on  and  on, 

While  her  voice  trilled  out  in  gladsome  rhyme, 

A  gallant  deed  of  the  olden  time. 

Pretty  Ruth  Allen  from  sun  to  sun, 

Labored  until  the  work  was  done, 

Then  said  :  "  'T  is  a  banner  for  the  brave, 

And  this  is  the  only  boon  I  crave, 

That  when  my  own  hero  shall  sink  to  his  rest, 

His  comrades  shall  fold  it  over  his  breast. 

And  the  stars  that  enrich  it  like  those  up  above 

Shall  burn  on  his  bosom,  the  stars  of  my  love." 

Under  the  banners  of  Southern  moss, 
Ruth  Allen  sits  weaving  a  Southern  cross, 
42 


RUTH    ALLEN.  43 

There  in  the  light  of  the  dying  day, 

Weaving  a  cross  of  symbolic  gray. 

Her  cheeks  are  pale,  and  her  eyes  are  dim, 

And  she  sings  no  more,  but  weeps  for  him  ; 

And  her  heart,  now  ladened  with  sorrow  and  care, 

Goes  back  to  that  day  of  death  and  despair, 

When  a  lover  was  lost,  when  a  field  was  won, 

And  her  life-joys  went  down  like  a  setting  sun. 


YOUTH    AND  AGE. 

Upon  the  gleaming  heights  I  stood, 

It  seems  so  long  ago, 
About  me  heaven's  glories  shone, 

The  skies  were  all  aglow. 
Far,  far  below  the  valleys  spread, 

Inviting,  cool,  and  green, 
The  rugged  rocks  seem  golden  walls, 

With  silvery  streams  between. 

With  longing  eyes  I  looked,  and  cried, 

"  O  !  shall  I  never  reach, 
The  valleys  with  their  winding  ways, 

The  far-off  shining  beach, 
Where  murmurs  of  the  mighty  tide, 

The  music  of  the  waves, 
Seem  ever  like  sweet  solemn  songs, 

Above  eternal  graves  ?  " 

Ah  !  since  that  time  my  feet  have  trod, 
The  paths  that  from  above 
44 


YOUTH    AND    AGE.  45 

Lead  down  from  those  exalted  ways, 

The  paths  of  youth  and  love. 
To-day  within  the  longed  for-shade 

I  stand,  and  hear  the  sea  ; 
The  radiant  heights,  far  off  and  dim, 

Have  lost  their  majesty. 

Tho'  oft  the  darkening  shadows  creep 

Around  me  lowering  low, 
Within  my  soul  there  is  no  fear, 

No  longings  backward  flow. 
For  voices  fond  seem  calling, 

Methinks  I  feel  the  spray 
Of  waters  on  my  cheek  and  brow, 

Where  I  shall  float  some  day. 

Borne  onward  to  the  distant  shore, 

Where  burdens  are  cast  down, 
And  time  shall  wreathe  the  thorns  no  more 

Into  the  waiting  crown. 
Eternity  !  what  heaven-born  hopes, 

Shall  blossom  from  despair, 
What  endless  dreams  of  youth  and  love, 

Unfold  immortal  there! 


THE  DEATH   OF  STONEWALL    JACKSON. 


The  great  rebel  chief  lay  dying, 

Dying,  almost  dead, 
While  pressing  close  around  him 

Were  the  troops  he  oft  had  led. 
They  are  true,  and  tried,  and  faithful, 

The  soldiers  gathered  there, 
But  their  hearts  are  sinking  now 

With  a  measureless  despair. 

O'er  the  hills  of  old  Virginia, 

By  river-side,  on  plain, 
And  through  her  tangled  forests, 

Amid  her  fields  of  grain, 
His  fortunes  they  had  followed 

With  weary,  willing  feet  ; 
He  had  led  them  oft  to  glory, 

But  never  to  defeat. 

Now  he  is  marching  down  to  death  ; 
They  cannot  follow  there. 
46 


THE  DEATH  OF  STONEWALL  JACKSON.     47 

He  fights  the  last  great  fight  alone, 

With  penitence  and  prayer. 
The  icy  hand  is  on  his  heart, 

His  eagle  eye  grows  dim, 
While  his  voice  is  faint  and  failing, 

As  a  distant  vesper  hymn. 

His  pale  lips  faintly  murmur  : 

"  How  sweet  the  evening  breeze  ; 
Let  us  cross  o'er  the  river, 

And  rest  beneath  the  trees." 
Perchance  he  had  a  vision 

Of  some  great  victory  won, 
And  a  rest  for  his  weary  warriors 

Now  that  the  work  was  done. 

He  died — and  on  the  bosom 

Of  the  grand  old  mother  State 
The  Southern  soldier  slumbers 

Amid  the  good  and  great, — 
A  fitting  resting-place  for  one 

Who  died  for  liberty. 
Heaven  grant  him  everlasting  bliss 

In  the  great  eternity  ! 


THE  IDEAL  LAND. 

Beyond  the  boundaries  of  the  real, 
There  lies  the  realm  of  ideal  land  ; 

And  all  are  sovereigns  who  enter  there, 
Where  the  gates  eternally  open  stand. 

And  there  where  the  ages  are  as  a  day, 
In  their  flight  over  fairy  fields, 

Fancy  a  wonderful  woof  of  dreams 
From  a  mystical  distaff  reels. 

There  one  may  enter,  and  leave  behind, 

As  a  garment  is  cast  away, 
The  weary  thoughts  that  oppress  the  soul, 

And  the  cares  that  belong  to  clay. 

O  ideal  land  !  who  has  not  felt 

The  magical  breezes  that  fill 
The  sails  of  ships  on  thy  endless  seas, 

Where  the  happy  ones  float  at  will  ? 

48 


THE   IDEAL    LAND.  49 

Who  has  not  walked  there,  hand  in  hand, 

'Neath  the  light  of  a  glorious  sun, 
With  the  phantom  loves  that  never  have  lived, 

And  the  souls  that  may  never  be  one  ? 

'T  is  a  land  where  the  flowers  are  ever  ours, 

Where  mortals  may  sow  and  reap, 
And  the  sacred  treasures  we  win  and  wear 

Our  souls  may  in  secret  keep. 

The  lonely  and  sad  find  a  welcome  there, 

At  home  in  the  palaces  grand, 
Where  tears  float  away  before  laughter  and  love, 

The  mists  of  that  ideal  land. 

O  beautiful  land,  where  hearts  never  grow  cold  ! 

Dear  land  of  the  lofty  and  leal ! 
Who  would  not  turn  to  thy  limitless  life 

From  the  dreary  confines  of  the  real  ? 


THE    UNVEILING   OF    THE    STATUE   OF 
GENERAL  A.  S.  JOHNSON. 

Unveil  the  statue  ;  let  the  living  here 
Look  once  again  upon  the  form  so  dear. 

Behold  !  a  nation's  soldier  and  her  pride, 
One  of  those  great  undaunted  souls, 
About  whose  memory  her  love  enfolds, 

And  say  :  «  'T  is  well  he  died." 

Where  shall  we  find  beneath  the  sky 
More  fitting  spot  to  raise  on  high 

A  tribute  to  the  brave  ? 
For  here  they  sleep  on  every  side, 
The  men  who  for  their  country  died, 

A  hero  in  each  grave. 

Unveil  the  statue  ;  't  is  his  place, 
A  noble  son  of  high-born  race, 

To  rise  above  the  throng  ; 
And  ours  to  keep,  through  coming  days, 
50 


THE   UNVEILING.  51 

His  fame  unsullied,  and  give  praise 
That  to  his  deeds  belong. 

Thank  Heaven,  he  never  knew  defeat, 
But  death  to  him  came  swift  and  sweet, 

And  'round  him  as  he  fell, 
The  strife  of  battle,  like  a  sea, 
Flowed  onward  in  its  majesty  : 

Son  of  the  South  !   't  was  well. 

He  perished — 't  was  a  bloody  day — 
When  leading  on  the  columns  gray, 

And  carnage  reigned  around  ; 
His  men  about  him  row  on  row, 
Amid  the  mighty  ebb  and  flow 

Of  battle  strewed  the  ground. 

Heavenward  their  valiant  souls  arose, 
And  at  the  evening's  solemn  close 

His  spirit  led  the  van. 
The  cannons'  roar  the  echoes  woke, 
The  gleam  of  bayonets  thro'  the  smoke, 

Like  silver  streamlets  ran. 

Like  breath  of  tempest  o'er  the  land, 
They  onward  swept,  the  armies  grand, 
As  storms  where  mountains  frown, 


52  THE    UNVEILING. 

And  floated  high  the  flags  of  war, 
The  cross,  the  crescent,  and  the  star, 
Where  rebel  ranks  rushed  down. 

Then  darkness  let  her  mantle  fall 
Above  the  landscape  like  a  pall 

Upon  each  weary  breast  ; 
Where  soldiers  slumbered,  far  and  wide, 
To  dead  and  living  side  by  side, 

The  night  had  brought  sweet  rest. 

So  'mid  the  darkness  and  the  dust 

Of  long  gone  years  where  bright  swords  rust, 

And  battle  banners  lie, 
We  '11  lay  away  our  memories  sad, 
With  triumphs  that  have  made  us  glad, 

And  names  that  cannot  die. 

Unveil  the  statue  ;  through  the  years 
Let  those  who  tread  here  shed  no  tears, 

Nor  feel  one  throb  of  pain. 
For  Patriot's  blessings  o'er  him  breathe, 
Immortal  names  with  his  enwreathe. 

Who  '11  say  he  died  in  vain  ? 


THE   VOUDOO. 


The  voudoo  sings  her  weird  witch  song, 
Adown  the  brakes,  the  lakes  along  ; 
She  stoops  where  deadly  blossoms  blow, 
About  her  feet  the  fire-flies  glow. 

The  gliding  serpent  from  her  path 
Turns  not,  but  sounds  the  note  of  wrath  ; 
She  heeds  it  not,  but  laughs  in  glee, 
And  plucks  the  death  blooms  from  the  tree. 

Down  by  the  bayous  and  the  banks 
Where  rushes  raise  their  spear-like  ranks, 
O'er  grass-grown  ways,  by  marshy  fens, 
Where  mosses,  massed,  enwrap  the  glens, 

She  nightly  takes  her  lonely  way, 
Shunning  the  brightness  of  the  day, 
Waking  from  out  the  dewy  grasses, 
The  humming  insects  where  she  passes. 
53 


54  THE   VOUDOO. 

The  cayman  from  his  slimy  bed 

Lifts  to  the  lights  his  horny  head, 

His  bellowings  break  the  night-bird's  rest, 

And  sends  it  fluttering  from  its  nest. 


It  hooting  waves  its  goblin  wings 
Above  the  voudoo  as  she  sings  : 
"  Awake,  O  bloom  of  beauty,  wake  ! 
From  out  thy  bosom  death  I  take." 

Whene'er  I  will,  fond  hearts  grow  cold, 
Breath  of  my  life,  thy  leaves  unfold, 
Flowers  of  vengeance  and  of  hate, 
My  eager  hands  above  you  wait. 

She  sees  the  day-star  hung  on  high, 
A  crystal  ball  far  up  the  sky, 
And  wanders  back  thro'  marsh  and  fen, 
Like  some  fierce  beast,  to  its  dark  den. 

Back  to  the  hut  beside  the  lake, 
Behind  it  lies  the  sunless  brake, 
About  it  gorgeous  flowers  entwine, 
The  jessamine  and  the  scarlet  vine. 


THE    VOUDOO.  55 

But  deadly  night-shade  grows  between, 
And  serpents  coil  amid  the  green  ; 
There  spiders  swing  their  silken  beds, 
And  treacherous  reptiles  raise  their  heads. 

Within,  O  dare  not,  tread  not  there, 
Death  breathes  upon  the  very  air, 
Naught  but  a  creature  vile  could  dwell 
One  moment  in  that  earth-wrought  hell. 

A  creature  lost  apart  from  earth, 
A  demon  smiled  upon  thy  birth, 
Accursed  in  life,  in  death  no  friend 
Shall  o'er  thy  couch  in  anguish  bend. 

Upon  thy  brow  the  brand  of  Cain, 
What  hand  shall  soothe  thy  bitter  pain  ? 
Ah  !  well,  perchance  some  good  is  brought 
From  out  the  ruin  thou  hast  wrought. 

In  human  lives,  a  soul  but  gives 
The  good  or  ill  that  in  it  lives. 
Who  can  condemn,  since  God  dictates 
The  destiny  his  power  creates  ? 


DEAD  ON  THE  FIELD  OF  HONOR. 


In  a  fair  land  beyond  the  sea, 
Whose  banners  bear  the  fleur  de  lis, 
A  band  of  heroes  there  't  is  said, 
Answering  the  roll-call  for  the  dead, 
Say  for  each  gallant  comrade  slain 
In  battle,  on  some  world-known  plain, 
"  Dead  on  the  field  of  honor." 

And  now  whene'er  brave  soldiers  meet, 
Amid  the  tramp  of  martial  feet, 
The  beat  of  drum,  the  warlike  strain 
Of  "  Dixie  Land  "  heard  once  again, 
The  living  there  may  proudly  say  : 
"  They  sleep,  our  comrades  true  to-day, 
Upon  the  field  of  honor." 

Where'er  the  sweep  of  wandering  winds 
Makes  music  thro'  the  solemn  pines, 
Where  mountains  linked  across  the  land 
56 


DEAD    ON    THE    FIELD    OF    HONOR.  57 

Enchain  the  depths  of  forests  grand, 
From  sea  to  sea,  by  rushing  river, 
They  lie,  dead — but  forgotten  never — 
Upon  the  field  of  honor. 

Yes,  dead,  but  in  remembrance  still 
Their  glorious  names  our  hearts  will  thrill. 
Sons  of  the  South,  their  noble  deeds, 
Upspringing  in  your  hearts  as  seeds, 
Will  bid  you  bear  thro'  coming  wars 
The  memory  of  the  stars  and  bars 
Upon  the  field  of  honor. 

No  more  thro'  all  the  coming  years 
Will  they  behold  the  countless  spheres, 
Hung  from  abysmal  arches  high, 
The  wondrous  watchers  of  the  sky, 
Nor  feel  the  south  wind  soft  and  low, 
Where  camp-fires  once  were  wont  to  glow 
Upon  the  field  of  honor. 

No  more  they  hear  the  rebel  yell 
Where  battle  thunders  rose  and  fell ; 
'T  is  now  a  welcome  and  a  cheer 
To  friends,  to  foemen,  far  and  near ; 


58  DEAD   ON    THE    FIELD    OF   HONOR. 

And  peace,  sweet  peace,  born  of  despair, 
Walks  forth,  and  sheds  her  radiance  fair 
Upon  lost  fields  of  honor. 

Peace  to  the  living  and  the  dead, 
Peace,  for  the  bloody  years  now  fled. 
A  nation  proud  with  armies  grand, 
United,  they  about  her  stand, — 
Her  bold  defenders,  who  will  die 
In  brotherhood  beneath  the  sky 
Upon  her  fields  of  honor. 

And  now  the  living  well  may  say  : 
Arise,  brave  spirits,  come  to-day  ! 
Behold,  where  in  communion  sweet 
The  soldiers  of  our  country  meet, 
The  men  who  in  the  days  of  yore 
Bravely  their  battle  banners  bore 
Upon  the  field  of  honor. 

We  '11  tell  our  children  how  they  died, 
Strewing  the  land  on  every  side, 
The  gallant  men  who  wore  the  blue, 
The  sons  of  the  Southland,  brave  and  true  ; 
Of  battles  lost  and  battles  won, 


DEAD    ON    THE    FIELD   OF    HONOR.  59 

Of  famous  deeds  beneath  the  sun, 
Upon  the  field  of  honor. 

And  heart  to  heart  and  hand  to  hand, 
When  outward  foes  assail  the  land, 
The  world  will  see  these  armies  vast 
Wipe  out  the  hatred  of  the  past. 
Behold  the  valiant  and  the  brave, 
Seek  then  one  glory  and  one  grave 
Upon  the  field  of  honor. 


THE  BORDER-LAND. 


Far  out  on  the  frontier  they  dwell, 

A  people  alone, 

Where  the  breezes  make  moan 

About  their  rude  homes  in  the  forest, 

Where  the  white-veined  leaves  are  never  at  rest, 

And  the  spider  weaves  ever  its  silvery  spell, 

In  the  bower  where  the  song-bird  buildeth  her  nest. 

The   smoke   from   their  hearth-stones   to   heaven 

ascends 

Like  the  incense  of  prayer. 
No  altars  are  there, 
But  nature  her  sermons  unfold, 
And  ever  her  lessons  repeat, 
By  the  murmuring  streams  and  dark  woody  dells, 
Where  her  voices  are  mellow  and  sweet. 

Their  sons  are  unlettered  and  rude, 
But  true,  and  as  bold 

60 


THE    BORDER-LAND.  6 1 

As  the  heroes  of  old, 

Who  have  left  us  their  great  deeds  in  story. 
Their  lives  and  their  loves  are  enwrought 
With  no  silver  threads,  and  their  daily  food 
By  the  sweat  of  their  brows  is  bought. 

Their  daughters  are,  children  of  toil  and  sorrow, 
They  wear  neither  jewel  nor  ring, 
But  they  ofttimes  smile,  and  they  sing 
While  their  swift  shuttles  glance 
In  and  out  weaving  the  homely  dyes, 
Taking  no  thought  for  the  cares  of  to-morrow, 
Dreaming  naught  of  the  danger  that  round  them 
lies. 

They  rise  and  go  out  in  the  sunset's  gold, 
A  spirit  of  rest 
Seems  the  earth  to  oppress. 
The  spider  has  ceased  from  its  spinning  ; 
The  song-bird  has  hushed  its  sweet  singing  ; 
The  cattle  estray  have  returned  to  the  fold  ; 
The  horn  of  the  hunter  through  the  forest  is  ring 
ing. 

A  rain-cloud  ascends  and  floats  out  on  the  sky  ; 
The  darkness  descends 


62  THE   BORDER-LAND. 

O'er  the  dim  wooded  lands  ; 

The  moccasined  feet  of  the  savage  come  stealthily 

Astir  in  the  spiritless  leaves  of  the  path  ; 

The  shuddering  night  hears  the  bloodthirsty  cry, 

Where  the  red  men  arise  like  demons  of  wrath. 

O'er  the  ashes  of  homesteads  the  sunlight  falls  ; 

The  wolf  to  the  thicket, 

With  jaws  blood  wet, 

Is  stealing  away  ;  from  its  eyrie 

The  vulture  drops  down  on  its  prey  ; 

And  no  ringing  horn  through  the  forest  calls, — 

Dead  are  the  loves  of  yesterday. 

In  the  halls  of  the  nation,  no  sorrow  reigns  there  ; 

Our  rulers  make  mirth 

With  the  high  ones  of  earth. 

There  is  joy,  there  is  feasting  in  lordly  homes  ; 

There  are  sounds  of  sweet  music  and  sounds  of 

song; 

They  hear  not  the  wails  of  death  and  despair  ; 
Nor  the  voices  that  cry,  "Avenge  us  our  wrongs  !  " 


THE  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 


Come,  memory,  with  thy  witching  wand, 
And  from  thy  treasured  store 

Bring  distant  days, 

Deserted  ways, 
That  I  may  tread  no  more. 

Restore  the  fading  pictures 
Of  that  sweet  sunlit  clime, 

Where  tropic  vine, 

With  flowers  entwine, 
Beneath  the  fragrant  lime. 

I  view  the  sunset's  glory, 
The  morning  glowing  red, 

The  violets  sweet 

Beneath  my  feet, 
The  roses  o'er  my  head. 

The  sounds  of  life  uprising 
Float  o'er  me  as  in  dreams, 
63 


64  THE   OLD    HOMESTEAD. 

The  lowing  herds, 
The  uttered  words, 
The  murmur  of  the  streams. 

I  see  a  grand  old  mansion, 
As  in  the  days  of  yore, 

All  pillared  white, 

An  isle  of  light, 
Uprising  by  the  shore. 

Beyond  the  fields  outspreading, 
Like  some  great  restless  sea, 

The  river  grand, 

The  forest  land, 
Enwrapped  in  mystery. 

There  are  the  cabins,  row  on  row, 
The  sinuous  paths  between, 

On  every  side 

The  workers  glide, 
Ghost-like  upon  the  scene. 

Once  more  the  anvil  ringeth 
Where  willow  hangeth  low, — 
Its  branches  toss'd, 
Like  goblins  lost, 
Down  by  the  dark  bayou. 


THE   OLD    HOMESTEAD.  65 

Within  the  shop  the  dusky  forms, 
Beneath  the  flickering  light, 

Seem  giants  grim  ; 

An  ancient  hymn 
Wails  out  into  the  night. 

It  soundeth  like  a  dirge  of  death 
From  out  the  open  door, 

The  sparks  arise 

Like  fire-flies, 
And  die  upon  the  floor. 

There  float  sweet  strains  of  music 
From  out  the  mansion  walls, 

Where  ladies  fair, 

With  stately  air, 
Sweep  through  the  spacious  halls. 

And  gallant  men  are  gathered  there, 
I  see  them  ride  away  ; 

And  then  the  night 

Shuts  out  the  light 
Of  many  a  by-gone  day. 

Within  the  ruined  homestead  now 
The  swallow  builds  her  nest, 


66  THE   OLD   HOMESTEAD. 

And  homeward  flies, 

When  down  the  skies 

The  sun-god  sinks  to  rest. 

So  o'er  the  gulf  that  lies  between 
The  dead  years  and  to-night, 

To  that  lost  home 

My  thoughts  will  roam, 
As  swallows  in  their  flight. 

Go,  memory,  with  thy  witching  wand, 
Why  bring  back  hours  long  fled  ? 

'T  is  all  in  vain. 

Ah  bitter  pain  ! 
Thou  canst  not  wake  the  dead. 


IN    MEMORY    OF    MRS.    GEN.   CABELL. 


In  the  great  city  of  the  dead, 
Silent  save  for  the  tears  we  shed 

And  the  sweet  words  of  prayer, 
The  day  in  regal  splendor  glowing, 
The  soft  spring  odors  round  us  flowing, 

We  laid  her  gently  there. 

The  loving  wife,  the  tender  mother, 

Ah  Death  !  could'st  not  thou  find  another, 

That  thou  must  take  the  best  ? 
We  left  her  alone,  the  heart  so  true, 
Beneath  heaven's  starlight  and  its  blue, 

Sweet  flowers  on  her  breast. 

But  we  knew  her  spirit  with  hastening  feet 
Had  gone  where  lives  are  made  complete, 

Where  never  enters  care  ; 
And  tho'  from  her  accustomed  place 
We  evermore  shall  miss  her  face, 

Our  hearts  will  not  despair. 
67 


68  IN    MEMORY    OF   MRS.  GEN.  CABELL. 

For  vast  and  wide  is  death's  domain  ; 
He  throws  his  earth-encircling  chain 

Around  us,  and  we  sleep. 
Our  best-beloved  are  his  prey, 
He  bears  them  from  our  arms  away, 

Tho'  we  our  vigils  keep. 

The  ways  he  takes,  to  mortal  eyes 
Seem  viewless  pathways  to  the  skies  ; 

But  as  in  days  of  old, 
Across  the  blackness  of  the  night 
There  lies  the  stair  of  heavenly  light 

That  leadeth  to  the  fold. 

From  out  the  gloom  dear  faces  bend, 
And  earthward  glad  evangels  send; 

Adown  the  aisles  of  life 
Their  glorious  anthems  ofttimes  reach, 
The  auras  of  our  earth-born  speech 

Amid  the  din  of  strife. 

And  through  the  mighty  moving  throng, 
Of  mortals  comes  a  solemn  song, 

Swift  as  the  winged  dove, 
Bearing,  where  stormy  waters  flow 


IN   MEMORY    OF    MRS.  GEN.  CABELL.  69 

Across  the  darkness  of  our  woe, 
The  olive  branch  of  love. 

And  then  we  know  some  blessed  day, 
When  earthly  visions  pass  away, 

Awaiting  God's  behest, 
No  more  o'erwhelmed  by  wave  and  wind, 
United  with  our  dead  we  '11  find, 

The  mount  on  which  to  rest. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SUN. 


God  of  the  planets,  monarch  of  day, 

I  reign  in  the  realms  of  space, 
And  night  waves  her  pinions,  and  flees  away 

From  the  light  of  my  luminous  face. 

I  drink  from  the  streamlets  and  seas  of  earth, 
And  my  rays  on  their  cold  waves  glance, 

Till  the  streamlets  sparkle  and  shake  with  mirth, 
And  old  ocean  seems  to  dance. 

I  kiss  the  fairest  flowers  that  bloom, 

And  the  fields  of  waving  green, 
Shedding  a  radiance  round  each  tomb, 

Where  the  steps  of  decay  are  seen. 

I  mark  the  hours  and  days  that  roll 

In  the  golden  circles  of  years, 
And  ever  on  earth  new  beauties  unfold, 

Chasing  away  gloomy  fears. 
70 


THE    SONG    OF    THE    SUN.  71 

Weird  witches  and  goblins,  and  spirits  lost 

Turn  from  my  light  away, 
To  the  shadows  of  night  and  the  far  distant  coast 

Where  darkness  dwells  with  dismay. 

For  music  I  have  the  song  of  the  spheres, 

Bright  stars  that  around  me  shine, 
Making  melody  sweet  through  endless  years, 

Bathed  in  my  light  divine. 

A  monument  of  immortality, 

Of  life  in  a  brighter  land, 
A  type  of  the  soul  that  will  never  die, 

Through  endless  ages  I  '11  stand. 


TO  THE  BEREAVED. 


We  lay  our  children  'neath  the  sod 

With  tears  of  desolation, 
While  angels  in  the  treasure-house  of  God 

Behold  their  bright  translation. 

Their  precious  lives  like  incense  rise 

From  the  cathedral  earth, 
Fond  mothers'  hearts  the  burning  sacrifice, 

Where'er  the  human  race  has  birth. 

Death's  ever  dark  and  mystic  way 

Is  made  a  path  of  flowers, 
And  lightened  into  glorious  day 

By  these  offerings  of  ours. 

What  mother's  soul  does  not  arise, 
When  these  sweet  ties  are  riven, 

Unto  the  heights  of  spirit  skies, 
The  lattices  of  heaven  ? 
72 


TO    THE    BEREAVED.  73 

What  mother  fears  to  follow  where 

These  little  feet  have  trod, 
Unto  the  radiant  kingdom  there, 

The  garner-house  of  God  ? 


HUMILITY. 

The  God  of  day,  low  down  the  sky, 

Hung  glittering  like  a  shield, 
While  round  him  clouds  of  every  dye 

Gleamed  from  a  golden  field, 
And  as  the  rays  shot  up  to  heaven, 

And  showered  down  their  glorious  beams, 
It  seemed  as  if  the  earth  had  risen 

To  gild  her  forests  and  her  streams. 

O  earth  !  I  said,  how  vain  thou  art, 

To  think  the  light  of  heaven  thine  own, 
For  know  thy  glory  shall  depart 

When  those  bright  beams  have  flown  ; 
And  all  thy  streamlets  and  thy  fields 

Shall  rayless  lie  upon  thy  breast, 
When  night  her  cheerless  sceptre  wields 

Above  a  weary  world  at  rest. 

How  like  to  man,  the  man  of  sin, 
Who  basks  beneath  the  light  divine, 
74 


HUMILITY.  75 

And  vainly  dreams  that  from  within 
His  soul  the  eternal  glories  shine. 

God  grant  us  then  the  grace  to  see 
That  by  His  love,  the  sun, 

We  '11  shine  through  all  eternity, 
When  heavenly  heights  are  won. 


THE   MISSISSIPPI. 


O  mighty  river,  pure  and  sparkling  as  a  little  child  ! 

Thou  springest  up  amid  the  snow-clad  hills, 

And  cometh  down  to  us  thro'  tangled  brake  and 

wild, 
With  blackened  waters  grown  to  manhood  and  to 

madness  ; 

Down  by  the  modest  hamlet  and  the  crowded  city, 
Down   by   the   homes    of    sin   and   suffering   and 

sorrow, 

Down  by  the  homes  of  joy  and  mirth  and  revelry. 
Thou  flowest  ever  with  the  self-same  fretful  mur 
mur  ; 

Thou  bearest  on  thy  broad  black  breast 
A  little  world,  a  nation's  wealth  ; 
And  in  thy  dead  cold  bosom  rests 
The  golden  treasures  of  full  many  hearts. 
How  oft  in  happy  childhood  would  I  stray 
Upon  the  white  sands  girding  in  thy  shore, 
That  like  a  strand  of  silver  lights  the  way 
76 


THE   MISSISSIPPI.  77 

Thy  murky  waters  murmur  to  the  sea. 

How  oft  have  stooped  to  write  in  glee 

Some  name  loved,  and  familiar  then  ; 

Names  of  the  dear  ones,  who  as  shadows  seem 

To  dwell  in  far-off  lands,  or  in  sweet  dreams. 

Ah  !  like  the  peasant  from  the  Alpine  heights, 

Who  glories  in  the  deadly  avalanche, 

My  heart  with  thoughts  of  thee  will  thrill 

Until  I  cross  the  full  dark  stream  of  death. 

Father  of  Waters  !  rushing,  restless  river,  on  thy 

shore 

How  many  hopes  have  wrecked, 
And  homes  that  late  resplendent  shone  now  lie 
Deserted  and  in  mouldering  ruins  ; 
Black  walls  and  broken  tell  of  days  gone  by, 
And  mark  the  ways  where  mighty  armies  trod. 
Upon  thy  banks  were  fertile  fields,  and  many  a  plain 
That  rivalled  famed  Cathay, 

Crowned  with  the  tasselling  corn  and  emerald  cane, 
That  on  the  earth  like  green  enamelling  lay. 
Ceres  poured  forth  her  gifts  with  bounteous  hand  ; 
And  from  her  trailing  garments  sprung 
Bright  flowers  that  carpeted  the  land 
Like  those  beneath  a  tropic  sun. 
But  flowers  are  faded  now,  and  fields  lie  bare, 


78  THE    MISSISSIPPI. 

Many  untrod,  untilled  by  man, 

Who  turns  from  scenes  so  desolate  and  drear 

With  clouded  brow  and  tear-dimmed  eyes. 

O  river  !  ever  running  to  the  sea, 

Tell  to  the  sounding  depths  the   sorrows  of  our 

people  ; 

Tell  how  in  vain  we  struggled  to  be  free  ; 
Tell  of  our  loved  ones  lost  for  liberty. 
Let  them  lie  there,  forever  buried,  where 
The  hurricane  will  sound  a  lasting  dirge, 
And  wailing  winds,  in  wild  despair, 
Mourn  o'er  our  downfall  and  our  destiny. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

Return  to  desk  from  which  borrowed. 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


I3Mar-52WB 


SEXTON  ILL 

NOV  H  1996 

U.  C.  BERKELEY 


; 


LD  21-95m-ll,'50(2877sl6)476 


Hereford,  Mr 

S.Elizabeth 

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